Hide your kids! Hide your wife’s naked selfies!

‘cause nothing’s sacred – or secret anymore. Jennifer Lawrence found this out the hard way when her phone got hacked and learned that a whole lotta her sexy time photo ops and general naked-ry ended up on the underweb. Then 4chan. Then everywhere. Then Perez – who subsequently gave an award winning abomination of a mea culpa and deleted the pics – only after being binary-rape shamed by the interwebz and fearing loss of popularity (AKA followers).

I’ll be honest. I’ve seen some things on the ol’ internet machine I’m not proud of in my day.

That was kind of a rite-of-passage circa Freshman year of college for my generation. But, no. I haven’t looked at J-law’s privies. There was a time, to my shame, that I totally would’ve. The net’s kinda like that. You lose a little bit of integrity (and mayhaps your soul) with the content you’re looking up and you don’t realize just how far down the spiritual spiral you’ve descended until you step far enough outside of yourself to realize you’re “that guy”. Ya know, the one who has to close down programs, minimize windows, and change your password anytime someone even comes over. Just in case.

Can’t be healthy.

And your argument might be “Course ya don’t care bout naked chicks. You’re a chick.” MMmkay. But, I kinda favor the female form and (#funfact) kinda always have. My first classmate crush was actually on a girl who I thought was so gorgeous I even asked for her phone number. That didn’t go so well for me. I’d end up ashamed enough to open my mind to dudes being dateable until it finally stuck following a crush on John Travolta – the 40 year old version (#zing #daddyissues), but I’d also always carry at the very least a flame of appreciation for chick aesthetics. I say all’a that because, yes, my monkey-mind side is terribly intrigued.

But it gets vetoed a bit more these days.

Especially if I hafta gaze through the digital version of the Master Bates hotel peephole.

Still, there’s more than some moral code at work here. Moral codes can be cracked.

It’s also that relentlessly inquisitive “why?” gnome residing inside my brain that makes think about how stupid the “naked novelty” cheap thrill thing is. The fun of porn is in the fantasy of the performance. She’s not performing here. At least – not for me. So why would I want to see her? Is she going to have sex with me? Are we going to have a naked pillow fight?

Oh! Will we become scissor sisters?!!1 #hope

Unfortunately not. If these were sexy texts, then she was performing for someone else. And if I sit home ogling them to perpetuate a fantasy, it’ll only climax in a tear lubricated forever-alone gasm that crashes into a chasm after that ephemeral full body burst. And in the moments within that lonely abyss (which regrettably stick with you for far longer that the endorphin rush) you stop and think, “Jesus. Is this my life? This is who I am?” It’s even worse if you’re a dude because you can’t quickly cure yourself of this sudden unwelcome crisis of conscience with round two when the self-disgust sets in.

Also, nudity’s only special because we’ve made it special.

Not you and me, specifically, but other humans in history whose rules we agreed to follow when were told to hide our parts that serve just another biological function. If we were forced to all be nude, your eyeballs would get pretty tired of going cartoon wolf after bishes all the time. Short of the anatomically-different aliens who walk among us (obviously), ain’t nobody got nada that I don’t or can’t have by working really hard to get it – be it at the gym or nip-tucking. Except for amazing cheekbones. (And if Heidi Montag taught us anything, it’s that you can’t buy those. At any price.) I guess I just liken the unseen sexual organs to the molars in your mouth or the feet in your sneakers. I know they’re there although they’re hidden. I know the functions they serve. But I kinda don’t wanna see those things either. And you’d probably feel weird if I requested it.

Right?

No?

Dude… lemme see that filling *grabs camel toe seductively*


(Let’s pause to appreciate how Roberts as a dude looks like Daniel Tosh.)

“What about Kate Upton?!” you’re probably saying. Yeah, dude. I’ve already seen 99.9999 % of her boobs in S.I. And they’re glorious. A sight to behold. But, like… do those hidden rose colored Kuiper belts I know are orbiting sausage-esque twin Nip-tunes under that triangle top have hypnotic powers? Oh! Can they perform Lasick on me if I look at ’em long enough? ’cause… if so, let’s violate some Kate! If not, though, it’s kinda tittyous tedious research to be performing.

That said, lotsa people do wanna see other people be exposed and they do feel weird about being exposed themselves. And that’s not surprising. Just a perversion of what’s natural about the forbidden fleshy hanging apples – perfected circa the Victorian era and given the finger in formative school by playing show and tell in the bathroom with little boys. (Sidebar: How cool would it be if every adult-date started out that way? What better icebreaker?)

Despite that “nothing-spesh” attitude I’ve assumed, I’m frustratingly also a slave to these same shame associations I learned early on. So I’d be lying if I said that it wasn’t a mentality that’s been just as ingrained into me along with everyone else. It’s been there a while; thus I surmise it’d take a while to fully change that and I’d be a bit upset if my bathing-suit-parts (that’s what the “Bad Touch Bears” called ’em in first grade) made their way to tor or whatever the seedy underbelly of online nation’s called. And I hope my non-gandering at Jenny’s goodies will come back to me in the karmic form of never getting hacked myself. Not a bad alternative to the old familiar shame-gasm.

So, in sum: “Leeeave J-law’s vajay links aloooone! *sobs into red curtain*””

Instead (as you could be next) spend the time expunging your own dick pics ‘n vag snaps.

Unless you’re this guy, who thinks his bizz is good bizz for selling real estate online.